Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Chloe
In spite of my restless night that was punctuated by hot dreams about my new nemesis—who I want to slap when I’m not drooling over him, or getting off to the memory of him staring at my lips like he wants to eat me—I’m still energized after spending half the day at the stadium lurking around, talking mostly to players and a couple of trainers.
My heart went into palpitations of excitement at the prospect of getting some inside info when I was introduced to one of the team physicians.
It’s almost four p.m. now and I park my car in the overpriced garage under the downtown building where the studio stubbornly resides in spite of outrageous rent, according to my real-estate lady, and no particular need to be at that precise location.
Grabbing my ass-moving iced coffee, I rush up the stairs for exercise and to satisfy my hardwired impatience, listening to the reassuring tapping of my heels on the cement.
Naturally, when I arrive at the newsroom I’m out of breath and I can feel a sheen of perspiration on my face.
The room is bustling and I don’t know eighty percent of the people yet.
Lucky thing I don’t give a crap about what impression I’m making because I probably look like I was just laid.
I wish. My mind darts to Tate Fontanna and I almost groan.
Will he never leave me alone? Thank God that’s a rhetorical question because I don’t have an answer.
Unloading my bag and my files and my coffee at my desk, I flick on my computer, then rush to Henry’s office to talk to him about my idea—about my angle for an interview with Fontanna and about his lack of cooperation.
“Why the hell do you need to interview him anyway?” Henry shrugs from behind his computer, unmoved by my request for his assistance to convince Fontanna to come in. “There’s fifty-odd other guys or coaches on the team you can pick on. Find one of them to cooperate.”
“You weren’t listening, Henry. He’s hiding something, I just know it.
” I wasn’t willing to part with my secret spying mission, how I overheard my unwitting source from the team’s athletic training department.
Knowing Henry even as little as I do, I sense a protective streak.
In fact, I’m lucky his protective streak doesn’t slap me in the face every day, it’s so obvious.
“Yeah?” He eyes me. “What’s your source?”
Fuck. Of course he asks. “I’m not at liberty to say, but it’s close and reliable. Fontanna is hiding an injury and he’s doing it because this is his big contract year.”
Henry shrugs again. “This isn’t a new story, Smitty. Happens all the time. What’s so special about this one?”
Million-dollar question.
“I’m going for the long angle, human interest meets exposé. Players and teams exploiting their own health in the name of the game. We all know why the teams do it, but why do the players do it? What’s their story?”
Henry nods, considers as he stares at his computer screen.
His eyes may as well be closed because I’m sure he’s not reading a thing.
The hamster wheel in his brain is moving.
But I wish it would move a hell of a lot faster because I want to call Tate today to arrange the interview for next week, before anything else gets scheduled.
Hank looks up, his face purposely neutral. “You realize I’m paying you to do the arranging. If I have to make the call it defeats the whole purpose.”
“I told you, he’s not going to do it unless he gets leaned on by the organization.”
He sighs. “I could call Marini. He owes me. On one condition.”
He stops talking and I know I’m in trouble.
Fuck. Conditions are never a good sign. Jeez, I have to stop swearing, even in my head.
Because this newsroom isn’t the same as the old local hometown studio I came from.
And in spite of my innate need to be accepted for who I am, I know there’s room for adjustments at the edges, that I need to adapt a smidge for the sake of my career ambitions.
Even Oscar the Mouth adapted—sometimes. Except with him people came to expect the color, were disappointed when he didn’t deliver.
Me? I’m still finding my way, establishing myself. The needle is bouncing around on the bold and unconventional scale and I’m not sure where I’m going to end up yet. My range is fucking broad, spanning a very wide spectrum.
“Spill it.” I don’t swear, but I know he sees it on my face because his expression grows satisfied with evil intent. He’s a typical boss. What do I expect?
“You keep the interview polite. Nothing controversial.”
“What the fuck, Henry? The whole point—”
“Is to get him in the door. No way in hell I’m pulling strings with Marini for a blindside.” He pauses to let that reality sink into me. I truly hadn’t thought this through, had I? Shit. Shit is okay. It’s a lesser swear word than fuck. I can think shit and say shit. Glad I established that line.
“Okay. Let’s hear your big plan.” Because I can see he has one hidden behind his evil self-satisfaction.
“We soft play him. And . . .” He stands from his desk and comes around like he has to deliver some bad news up close and personal to catch me in case I fall over.
I’m still standing in the doorway, barely over the threshold, and he closes the door behind me.
Fuck. No—double fuck. To hell with not swearing.
“I give the exposé assignment to—”
“No. Fucking. Way.” My voice is quiet and adamant and very reasonable, almost professional except the fucking part. He folds his arms and softens the evil master look.
“You’re new, Chloe. Low man—woman—on the totem pole in here.
You’re a looker and not half bad on air, but you’ll have to be patient.
Pay your dues.” He pauses and I’m absorbing his words as if I’m in a heavyweight bout, a hundred-pound weakling being pummeled by a gorilla.
I don’t say anything, don’t bother to raise my fists in self-defense because, let’s face it, he’s got lead weights in his mitts and it was never a fair fight.
He’s the boss. And he’s right. I can hear my father’s words.
But don’t let that stop you from getting back up and fighting your way to the knockout.
Oscar the Mouth liked the fights, in the ring and in real life.
My dad truly enjoyed the struggle to win the battle.
Said it was the best part of living. Nothing was any fun if it was too easy.
And I’m a chip off that old block. So I grit my teeth and raise my chin, daring Henry with my silence to hit me again.
“I have all the confidence in the world in you, but I got a couple of other reporters ahead of you in age and experience who know the score. You need to stay in your lane for now, make nice, and get player interviews on the show. We’ll leave the controversial stuff to our veteran broadcasters for now. ”
“For now? How long?” I seize on the sliver of hope he tosses out, no doubt thoughtlessly.
“I don’t know. We’ll figure it out.”
“I’m disappointed, Henry. I thought you wanted something more than the usual banal shit from me.” Throwing his words back at him, I arch a brow.
“You can be better than banal, but you’re not handling a big show exposé. At least not on air. You can help with background. Do some investigating since you seem to have an inside line.”
“Behind the scenes crap?” It’s better than nothing.
I like the old investigative reporting kind of gig, but if I were satisfied with that, I’d be working at a paper.
The only way to get ahead in the broadcast business is to be the one on air.
Not someone’s backstage assistant getting her feet dirty in the muck.
On the other hand, I really do enjoy the dirt and the muck.
Especially when it includes digging deep into the likes of Fontanna.
Shit, I’m pathetic. But I want both, I want everything.
I know I’m impatient as sin, like I have a devil on my shoulder telling me to hurry up all the time, to go for broke, because it really is a race.
Especially this race, the one to make my career worthy of being the daughter of the legendary Oscar Smith, the Mouth. Worthy of paying tribute to my hero.
Before I make myself cry I stop pacing, not even realizing I’m walking a tight circle in the cramped office.
“Settle down, Chloe. You’ll get your chance. Besides, I know you like getting into the weeds with a good investigation. Have that on good authority and it’s the one thing we’ve been weak at in the station. Part of the reason I brought you in over more experienced on-air talent.”
“Gee, thanks.”
He laughs and pats my arm. It feels fatherly, but I’m not in the mood.
There’s a reason the station’s short on investigative talent.
Because no one wants to do it, and if they do, they sure as shit don’t want to share their scoop with someone else, let alone give it away. And that’s what he’s asking me to do.
“Call Fontanna for the interview. Schedule it for the next available timeslot—probably next week—and play nice. Strictly softball. That’s the condition before I make the call to Marini. Are you in?”
“I promise I’ll interview him about his puppy and his favorite bubblegum, just get him to come in.” I could soften Fontanna up for the kill. Or harden him up for something else, my girly parts are whining.
“You swear on your mother’s grave you’ll go easy?
” he asks, knowing I can’t worm out of this one because it’s my mother.
He doesn’t bother with my father’s grave because it’s in hell and swearing to do anything and everything was his stock in trade—whether he meant it or not.
He would do anything for the job—including break promises.
Occasionally even promises to me. But my mother’s grave—that was a whole other matter and we both knew it.